Diamonds Aren't Forever
by Joanne Barcia
Summary: "You can stay here forever," the Reaper promises. "Or you could go back." / Oliver Queen has a choice to make.


**A/N: And what do you know, the longest oneshot I've ever written. This took awhile to finish, and I'm still not sure I like how it turned out - so reviews and critique would really be appreciated! Thanks!**

**Edit: Forgot to mention the first time around that this isn't to be set in season three at all. I started it when I was catching up, probably just after the episode when Sara died; but this isn't tagged to any season. It just is. Thanks, and enjoy!**

* * *

_ I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet._

_\- Sylvia Plath (The Bell Jar)_

* * *

And when he stares the Reaper in the face, he finds it not to be some dark, encompassing ghost, but rather a kind-eyed and smiling woman. She is not cold, stiff, or threatening – but warm. He sees the delicate hand she extends to him, and he thinks that if this is death – then he never had much to worry over anyway. There is no pain. No suffering. No fear. He left that all behind him.

Instead, as he reaches for her hand and his fingers lace with hers, he feels quite the opposite. It radiates, he thinks; from her heart to his, though their fingertips, he feels this boundless stream of joy, of freedom, of love. Of forgiveness, forgiveness, forgiveness, and he thinks that if there's even a small fragment of his soul left in him, then it's lapping that forgiveness up like honey. The warmth of her hand in his spreads to every inch of his body, and he is calm.

Shado guides him the rest of the way. He's not precisely sure where they're going, or if there's even a heaven in existence that would let a man like him through the gates, but he trusts her. He trusts her with his life, the one he left behind, and he would follow her to hell if she led him there. Thankfully, she doesn't. So he won't have to.

He follows her home, to some nondescript little room where he finds Sara standing next to Tommy standing next to Moira standing next to Robert, and he thinks – this is it. Just looking at their faces is enough for him to believe that someone actually did let him into Heaven. Probably by mistake, no doubt, but for now, he resolves to bask in his family's simple presence until that someone corrects that mistake.

Where can he begin? At the start? The finish? His attention alone is spread thin, his eyes jumping from every happy face to the next because they're all so important and special and _god, _he missed them all so dearly. Every single smile is a hole in his chest being filled, and he's well and truly speechless by now.

But squeezing Shado's hand softly before gently letting go, that doesn't take any words; and hugging her like a lifeline can be done silently. He kisses her forehead, and she supplies the words: "I've missed you, Oliver Queen."

He's never been sure if he believes in God or not, but he decides that he's been suddenly blessed. He wants to soak everyone up, absorb just the feeling of having them again, but the closest thing to that is just moving down the line. So he does.

There's Sara, who flings her arms around his neck as if this is nothing more than a random reunion; and he holds her tight because the last time he saw her, he was bolting her makeshift casket shut and lowering her into a grave. Before that, it was as she lay dead with three arrows sticking out from her chest. To see her now, smiling and happy and animated, was an absolute gift.

And then there's Tommy Merlyn. He's not quite sure what led up to this particular moment, but he finds himself standing face to face with his best friend, with both of Tommy's hands on his shoulders, searching for words that could even remotely suffice. God, Tommy's worth far more to Oliver than words could say; but when Tommy pulls him into what is arguably the tightest hug he has ever received, he says them anyway, without thinking. He can't even hear himself, the way his head is shoved against Tommy's neck, but he figures he said something along the lines of, "I'm so sorry," or, "Thank you," or some mix of the two.

Whatever he ended up saying, though, it's dismissed with a warm clap to the back of his shoulder and Tommy's voice telling him, without heat, "Oh, just shut up, you big reckless idiot!"

And they pull apart.

And then there's his mother. She's beautiful, smiling and looking at him with fondness he hasn't seen in so long, and his heart nearly bursts at the sight of it. And he very nearly looks away. She died because of him, she was _murdered_ because of him, and he thinks – she should hate him. But judging by the look in her eyes, suddenly what _should be_ is just so vastly different than what _is_. So like Shado, like Sara, like Tommy, Moira reaches up and wraps her arms around Oliver and hugs him tight, and he just breathes her in like summer air. And his chest shakes as he exhales, fighting a rising sob in his throat because she smells like rose petals and sweet coffee and nights inside by the fireplace when he was a kid, and she was gone from him for so long, but now _he has her back_. Having her back was just some hazy, out-of-reach dream before, but now it's_ real_. And he knows it's real, because he feels her warmth and smells her and hears her _voice_ telling him she's so _proud_, and he thinks – how could it get any better?

It gets better when they pull apart and he looks to his father, who's standing tall and proud, looking at him with this mix of pride and love and apologies.

Oliver doesn't particularly like to think about the last time he saw his father, alive or dead. Pick one of the two and you'll get either Oliver burying Robert on a high hill of a hellish island or watching helplessly as he shot himself in the head, leaving him alone in the middle of the ocean. Neither are fond memories.

The fond memories are the summers spent in the yard as Oliver learned to ride a bike. They're the lazy afternoons of prodding a young teenager to just do his homework already, the movie nights and the parties and the entire lifetime of memories before the _Queen's Gambit's_ final voyage.

The man from that lifetime was the one Oliver did all of this _for_. He donned the hood for him, kept fighting his crusade and lived and died to keep that man's memory alive.

And here he is. Here's Robert Queen, staring with tears in his eyes at his oldest child. And there's this one moment where silence stretches through the open space and they both just stare at each other, trying to find the right words.

And maybe they're not perfect, but Oliver speaks anyway.

"Hi, Dad."

He barely finishes the word before Robert has him enveloped in his arms, before there are frantic kisses on the side of his head and words of pride rushing against his ears, and it hits him like a truck, or a bullet, or an arrow: he has his father back. After seven years, he sees his face, hears his voice, feels his strong arms around him, and suddenly Oliver is nine years old. Scared not of the monsters under his bed, but the ones that would come through the bedroom window if his dad _specifically_ didn't lock them tight enough and give the room a thorough once-twice-thrice-over. Robert's arms around his nine year old son in the dark evenings, they always meant that everything was going to be alright.

As it seems, they have the same effect twenty years later.

When they pull away, he's crying. His cheeks are shining and there's a faint vibration in his chest that is not quite invisible, and Robert's hands on his shoulders aren't enough to stop it. He senses everyone's eyes on him and considers for a moment feeling embarrassed; but he's earned this. He's fought for his life too many times, pulled himself onto solid ground by his fingernails and broken bones too many times. He's gone without feeling for long enough.

He blinks and his mother has got her arms around his waist again. Both of his parents have him in their arms and all he can bring himself to do is whisper.

"We could have been happy," he says, fighting back another unwelcome sob. "We _were_ happy, we were _so_ happy. What happened?"

And he loses the fight as he drops his head to rest on his mother's shoulder. He hears her sigh.

"Oh, the world happened, my dear. But everything is alright now, my strong, beautiful boy. You've made me so proud. Every single day, you made me proud to be your mother."

He thinks, this is it. And he's home now, in this room full of people who all died young. He's got his parents back, and his best friend, and Sara, and Shado, and he's sure that once they leave this room he'll find even more people he's loved and lost. The survivors from Ivo's ship, who really didn't survive long thereafter. Yao Fei. Tommy could bring him to visit his mother. The list goes on; and death seems the perfect time to reminisce.

He opens his mouth to ask the question, starts to wonder when he can find all the people he still needs to see. When he can see all the beautiful things he knows must be just outside these walls. His lips barely part, however, before Shado is by his side once again, taking his hand in her gentle, forgiving way.

"You can stay here forever," the Reaper promises. "Or you could go back. If you'd like. It's your choice."

His smile breaks in that instant. And if there's still a heart left in his chest to beat, it's hammering away, now, just from hearing those words. Of course it's his choice; it always is.

But terrible things happen when it's left to Oliver Queen to decide. Some people die, and others live; and none of it is ever fair in the end.

Perhaps it really was too good to be true.

"No," he begs, and he'll beg forever if he has to. He looks into Shado's eyes, then his mothers, and then everyone else's, and he sees the truth hidden there. _"No - _don't..."

And the Reaper goes on, "There's no need to worry, Oliver. There is no rush. You could wait awhile, if that's what you want, and then go back to your friends and sister. Or you could just stay forever. It's your –"

"Do _not _say it's my choice," he nearly hisses, pulling his hand away from hers. His cheeks have yet to dry, and there's no sign of that happening any time soon. "I am _done_ choosing. Between you and Sara, between my mother and Thea, all of those were left to me to decide and _none _of it ended well. I'm not sure if you've noticed, but bad things tend to happen when I'm forced to choose and I – I'm done. _Please_."

His voice breaks.

"Please, just don't make me choose."

And silence falls upon them like snow, soft and fragile and cold. He looks away, breathing the snowflakes deep into his lungs and trying to exhale the unfairness of it all. How typical – he was _finally_ happy. For once, for the first time since the Gambit capsized, he had his family back and he could have been so _happy_, but now that chance is ruined. Because, as the Reaper so cruelly pointed out to him – he is still a divided man. He supposes that's the part of him that would never change, the part that would always be caught between two mutually exclusive things.

Shado and Sara.

Killing and curing.

Oliver Queen and the Arrow.

Thea and Moira.

Earth and Heaven.

His sister, his friends and his lost family.

Living and dying.

Oliver Queen lived his entire life in the gray area, and thus he will die the very same way. Straddling lines, stuck with choices he doesn't want to make. Oh, the injustice. How very, very typical.

But then there's Sara, carefully stepping towards him until she's right in front of him, close enough to reach out and brush her fingers against the back of his hand. He glances down at her as she finally just takes one of his hands into two of her own and whispers, "Oliver, bad things don't happen when you make a choice. I know you think that's true, but it's not. The bad things happen when you decide _not_ to choose and let other people do it for you. This time it really is your choice, Ollie, and no one's going to get hurt. You can do it."

"And besides," he raises his head as Tommy speaks up and walks over to stand beside Sara. "No one ever said we couldn't help you. Just talk it out, buddy. And, look, whatever you choose, we'll all still love you. Promise."

And Oliver stares forward, turning that over in his head.

"Did _you_ have a choice?" he asks carefully, and the corners of Tommy's mouth twitch into a sad little smile.

"No," Tommy says, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He purses his lips for a brief second, shakes his head slowly. "No, I guess you don't really get to decide whether you live or die when there's a metal rod making you a shish-kebab, right? I don't think there's any coming back from that. Coma patients, on the other hand…. They have some say in the matter."

"Coma?" he replies after some pause, knitting his eyebrows in genuine confusion. He's blanking on what even happened before he was staring at Shado and deciding that it didn't matter. But perhaps he was wrong; perhaps it really does matter. "So that means I - uh..."

And he glances about the room, looking at each and every person standing around him. They all look so real, so animated and alive - but perhaps the gates never opened after all. Perhaps it was just foolish for him to even consider it.

"Don't worry. You're really here," his mother supplies. And even without reason, it sounds logical; roses and tea and the warm smell of _home_ is so unique to her, so special. From the day she died forward, he's tried to call it into memory but never succeeded. She's _real. _They're all real. He knows they are, but how can they be? Come to think of it – perhaps _he's_ the illusion.

"It's all real, Ollie," Sara always did seem to know what he was thinking. Perhaps that's the part of her that would never change. "I peaked when they were bringing you in. Heard a couple doctors say something about brain death. But they're not sure; because you're not sure. You have some time before they kill life support, so there's no rush. Just think about it."

And what can he say to that?

Absolutely nothing without first glancing to his mother, trying and failing to gauge her expression, and nearly begging.

"Mom, what do I do?" In that single moment, Oliver Queen seems the smallest man on Earth or in Heaven, with his quiet, resigned voice and eyes that are just begging for guidance. And Moira has never failed to help him before. She's always been his compass, so why would she stop now?

The reason is simple.

"Oliver, this is completely up to you. This is your life, not mine, and I could never make that decision for you."

A beat.

"But you know what you would do."

A pause.

"Yes."

He nods.

And after some time, he says, "You would go back. You would go back and live because Thea is down there. And you always said nothing's more important than family, right?"

And she looks at him with pride in her eyes mixed with something else entirely. Some nonspecific sadness he can't place. She can do nothing but nod.

"Thea's down there," he continues. "And Laurel. Roy and Diggle and Walter. Felicity. God knows I love them all more than anything, and I should be doing everything in my power to fight my way back to them. I shouldn't… I shouldn't ever leave them alone. But… on the other hand…."

He pauses again and glances at Sara.

"Could I ever be the Arrow again?"

And he watches as she shakes her head, a mournful expression on her face.

"Not unless you can find a way to shoot a bow from a wheelchair."

And he thinks – this is it. He can't see his own face, but he assumes it looks horrified. It's as if someone just told him he was dying; but perhaps that comparison is faulty. Already having died, he fears the darkness far less than the threat of a future minus the Arrow. Somewhere along the line, he thinks, his priorities must have been skewed. Ah, well. There's not much he can do about it now, is there?

But he's curious.

"What exactly happened?"

"Long version or short version?"

Another decision. He simply shrugs his shoulders and refuses to answer. This doesn't deter her.

"Short version it is. You were fighting with the leaders of a local drug cartel, one of them apparently had an affinity for metal baseball bats, and another had a thing for driving cars into people. Roy found you face down on the pavement, and long story short: broken back, completely severed spinal cord, eight broken ribs, one collapsed lung, and a fractured skull that may or may not be accompanied by brain death. I think I got everything."

And yet he feels nothing. Here, his legs work just fine. Here he can breathe, he can walk, he can think. Here he's free.

But back in Starling City, things are different.

He nods.

"You know... when I first got back from the island," he starts. And he notes how just the off-hand mention of Lian-Yu no longer makes his chest tighten. He can suddenly think about it, talk about it without being haunted. The absence of his ghosts is noticed and very, very welcome. "I started up right away. Being the vigilante. It became part of me; and I can't really imagine my life without that stupid bow and the green hood..."

He turns his head to look at no one in particular.

"What would it be like?"

"Maybe halfway normal," Tommy answers with a hint of a smile on his face. "I mean, the whole paraplegic thing would take some getting used to, but think about it: no more Arrow means you actually get to live, man. Maybe you could actually finish college. You know, get a job or something, live your live, the works."

Oliver considers this.

Of course, there has always been the option of normalcy. Except there wasn't. Not really.

Men like Oliver Queen don't get to live normal lives.

That's just how it is.

"Living a normal life… that's a possibility," he says. "But if I'm honest… it'll probably end with me putting a bullet in my head. Ever since Lian-Yu, there was never any hope for that, I'll tell you…."

He looks to Sara, tells her, "You couldn't be normal either. I know. It's damn near impossible to see all the dark crap that goes on in the world, to be so close to the source, and to not be able to do anything about it. I mean… it would drive me insane, just sitting idle. Literally, I guess."

He trails off for a moment, and the people around him allow it. Then he continues.

"Would it make me selfish if I said I didn't want to go back?"

No one says anything to that.

"Like… I keep thinking about Thea. And how she'll be the only one of us left after I'm gone, right? But Thea – she's strong. Sometimes I think she's the strongest out of all of us. Because we all went through some hard times, right, and I – you know, I survived. And that's great, but Thea – she _thrived_. She didn't just make it through, she grew up. And she's still growing.

"She's going to be great, I know. Losing me will hurt, but she's got such great people around her – Roy, John, Felicity, Laurel, they'll all help her. She'll be okay. They'll _all_ be okay."

He pauses and looks out to all the people around him before his eyes settle on Shado.

"And besides," he says. "What if it's just my time, you know? Life is… hard. And exhausting. And just so full of suffering, so maybe… maybe it is my time."

He looks her right in the eyes.

"What do you think?"

* * *

"Have you made your decision?" the Reaper asks. He slowly nods and looks around him once more, his eyes lingering over every face. His mother, his father, Tommy, Sara, Shado – God, he loves them so much. There's so much love in Oliver Queen's heart that sometimes it's hard to bear it.

Sometimes he thinks that if he spreads it too thin, it will fizzle out until there's no more left to give.

But that's hardly the case, he finds.

He takes the Reaper's hand and smiles.

* * *

And he opens his eyes to bustling, massive chaos. And at first, all he can see is John Diggle, all wide, panicked eyes and shaking hands, begging for some response, telling him over and over again that everything's alright. But perhaps that's more to himself than to Oliver.

And then all he can hear is Laurel and her father, both somewhere out of sight, yelling for a nurse or a doctor or _anyone_ to please, _please just get in here_.

His eyes swivel and glance past John. And there's Felicity, staring at him with her special mix of petrifying fear and heartbreak that's always been reserved just for him; there's Roy, fighting back tears as he holds a shaking Thea, who's obviously decided against such a fight.

Thea shakes and sobs and cries so freely, violently, and he thinks – what a terrible thing it truly is to say goodbye. The ache he feels in his heart is widespread and deep, and the bitter pangs of loss are cold and harsh in his chest, but still – he can't bring himself to regret it.

There's a breathing tube lodged in his throat, snaking down, feeding him air and then greedily sucking it away. He thinks, it's in the way.

But Oliver Queen is nothing if not quick-thinking.

And he thinks – they'll be okay. All of them.

And he looks out at all of his friends as Laurel and Quentin rush back in with a frantic nurse, and he thinks himself the luckiest man in the world in that single moment.

He finds Thea Queen, finds her eyes and locks onto them. He hopes the tube won't block her sight.

And he smiles. He gives her his warmest, most serene smile and stares right at her as the monitors around him shriek and scream and hiss and yell and flatline.


End file.
